


Swing Sets Feel Like Flying

by Alicethrutheburrows



Series: Alice's Ficlets to Read While Falling [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Cas is dead, I wrote this for the feelings, It is a soft read, M/M, No Secrets From Me, Not A Happy Ending, Past Love, Sometimes you have to practice Catharsis, Swing Set, Writer Dean Winchester, learning to love again, the stages of grief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:13:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24447139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alicethrutheburrows/pseuds/Alicethrutheburrows
Summary: Dean goes to the place he feels the closest to the man he lost.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: Alice's Ficlets to Read While Falling [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1765615
Comments: 3
Kudos: 11





	Swing Sets Feel Like Flying

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the angsty-angst week challenge. I regret to say there is no happy ending, but this story holds a very deep and special place in my heart. I've never been one that feels close to those I lost at their graves, rather it's the place we've made memories that make me feel close to them.

He kicks his legs out harder, trying to chase that flying feeling Cas always talked about. Dean grips the metal links tighter, letting the cool metal bite into his hands. He breathes the chilly night air deep into his lungs. Call him crazy for swinging on the swings in the middle of the night, but it’s the only place he can come to think. The only place he feels close enough to Cas. 

Closing his eyes while leaning back letting the swing rock him back and forth, he's unaware he’s holding his breath until he needs to take another. Memories play on repeat behind his eyelids; memories of an utter troublemaker who just happened to be his best friend with his way too blues that were too wide for his face, his gummy smile that made his nose wrinkle too, and his stupid perpetual messy dark hair. Dean opens his eyes to the twinkling stars, letting the burn in his lungs settle. Peeling his eyes from the endless sparkles, they land on the empty swing next to him. 

Fuck. Staring at the empty swing too long is too much. Instead, Dean sets his eyes forward again and kicks off the ground once more falling into the familiar motions of swinging. He remembers how Cas loved the weightlessness that came from swinging. How his best friend always joked about how having his feet off the ground felt like freedom; felt like anything was possible when he was propelling himself through the air. Dean tries to feel it. The freedom, the weightlessness, the possibility of anything, but in the end, numbness wins out. 

The swings squeak and rattle underneath his weight but he could care less. Damn things have probably never seen a can of WD-40. If the swing broke now and he ends up a pile of mangled limbs, it wouldn’t be the worst thing to happen to him he thinks. A memory tickles the back of his mind as he feels reaches the highest the swings will allow him to go without toppling over. He’ll jump on the next back and forth. He’ll sail through the air for a fleeting seconds before hitting the ground. 

When his feet touch the ground, his knees protest the jump with an audible crack. He’s half-expecting for Cas to wind up beside him. Dude always crashed and burned when jumping off the swings, the last time ruining his favorite pair of jeans with some serious grass stains on the knees. Dean catches himself waiting. Waiting for Cas to grab his hand and pull him down to the ground so they both end up laughing their asses off while covered in dirt. A smile tugs at Dean’s lips thinking about the stupid grin that’d be on Cas’ face if he was here. 

A shaky inhale is followed by a more affirmed exhale. While the swings were Cas’ favorite, they weren’t his special place. Dean turns towards the overpass which sits on the very edge of the park. The bridge hovers above a small creek which fed into the large river that ran on the outskirts of town. His feet move faster than he can brain can process. He ducks, crawling up underneath the overpass like he’s done a hundred times in the past. 

You’d think with his love for flannel, leather, muscle cars, and hair gel Dean would be the bad boy influence but Nah, Cas most definitely was the bad influence. Dean turns in a circle soaking in the sight. Cas had brought him here when they were just beginning their friendship; they spent the night shivering their dicks off while sharing secrets. Something about being hidden away from the world made it feel safe to say anything, so they came here often to say all the things they couldn’t anywhere else—Dean’s dreams about being a musician, Cas’ about being an artist, school, girls, problems at home. 

His heart lurches as he turns toward the slanted wall of the bridge. A beautiful black spray-painted feather accompanied by some really bad black smiley faces stares back him. He doesn’t remember moving, only coming back to himself as he watches his fingers trace along the flecking paint lines. The feather is still just as beautiful as the night Cas painted it. Dean imagines the warmth from Cas’ laugh as his finger trails over the little C-A-S. 

He remembers when Cas put the letters next to the stem of the feather after finishing his masterpiece, only turn to watch Dean painting the worst smiley faces ever. His eyes crinkled with tears he was laughing so hard. Dean presses his forehead against the cold wall biting back a laugh at the memory. He gave Cas his best damn pouty face, the kid was an artist while Dean was a musician, of course, he’d be better with a can of spray-paint. The next few moments are etched into his brain the way his birthday is: Cas wiping the tears from his eyes as he steps into Dean’s pace, Dean’s breath hitching as Cas stopped centimeter’s from Dean, Dean flicking his eyes down to Cas’ lips like he had down a million times but this time finally swallowing his fear, Cas responding to his kiss with nothing but sheer eagerness. 

Tears Dean didn’t know he was holding back silently slither down his face. He pushes himself up from the wall. That night after sharing their first kiss they just held hands smiling at each other like a bunch of freaking dorks, but his hand nor his heartfelt warmer than they did at that moment. Now his hand is empty, and his heart feels cold. He wipes at his cheeks before tracing the feather one more time. 

“I miss you,” he whispers. 

Stepping back, he lets his hand drop back to his side. 

Cas was an artist. Kid had the talent to rival any famous painter. Cas’s passion for everything he did was one of the reasons Dean fell head over heels in love with him. Dean learned pretty quickly though that passion has a price. For Cas, he thought his best work happened when he was high. So, Cas chased all different kinds of highs—weed, pills, booze, sex with Dean. He chased and chased with Dean none the wiser about his self-destructive habits. 

You never expect to fall asleep one night to wake up to your phone ringing repeatedly until you answer. You honestly never, ever expect the voice on the side to mutter he’s gone, he’s gone, Dean. Accidents happen, you just never think they’ll happen to you let alone your best friend turned the love of your life. Dean remembers crawling into Sammy’s bed after the call, like they did when they were little and had bad dreams, trying to process the information. He remembers how Sam rubbed his back being Dean’s rock while Dean’s whole body shook from sobbing. 

Dean walks back to the Impala, the moonlight lighting his way. Climbing into Baby, he feels lighter. Being here, swinging on those damn squeaky swings, and seeing that beautiful feather makes it easier to remember the boy he loved rather than talking to some stupid headstone. He starts the car and waits for the radio to start playing before pushing the next button until their favorite song plays through the speakers. He hums along with lyrics and when Dean looks over at the passenger seat, he swears can see Cas muttering the words while tapping his finger against his leg. Smiling, Dean pushes the gas pedal down a little bit letting the purr of Baby’s engine guide him home. 

When Dean arrives home, he opens his laptop and pulls up a blank document. He stares at the blinking cursor; it taunts him until he begins typing. He writes and writes, spilling his emotions onto the page. He doesn’t care if the words are bad or that some of the sentences don’t make sense. He just simply writes—writes their story like he has done every night since the accident three years ago. 

_Five years later ___

__Dean flips open his laptop setting his mug of coffee down at the same time. He adjusts himself in his chair trying to get comfortable so he can put some words on paper tonight. He looks over at the beautiful hardcover book adorning a black feather on its cover resting on the top corner of the desk. Dean reaches out and pets the cover. He’s a published writer, wild he thinks. Leather and Feathers, their story, is Dean’s first published work. Sure, the characters are slightly different, the events definitely overexaggerated, but it’s still their story, although he did change the ending; everyone loves happy endings after all, and they damn well deserved one. He swears Cas wrote some of the book given how snarky and passionate some parts of it are._ _

__Dean never thought as stares at that damn blinking cursor he’d ever be a writer, but now he’d never want to be anything else. He gets to write their story across every kind of alternative universe, rewriting the ending over and over again._ _

__He gets to fall in love with Cas in every possible way his imagination can dream of all over again. He hopes Cas doesn’t think his stories are too cheesy. But every time he finishes one, he swears he catches Cas’ smiling face out of the corner of his eye._ _

__He sips his coffee._ _

__Then Dean writes. And writes. And writes._ _

**Author's Note:**

> I debated on posting this story at all because it is so personal, but then again sometimes you have to let others in to help heal the pain. Know, I am always here as an ear if you ever feel you need someone to talk to, or you are grieving. Keep going, you are more than strong.


End file.
